Voices
by Arien1
Summary: After his rescue from Mount Doom, Frodo finds healing in an unexpected way.


Title: Voices  
  
Author: Arien  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Synopsis: After his rescue from Mount Doom, Frodo finds healing in an unexpected way.  
  
Disclaimer: Characters and places are not my inventions; they are J.R.R. Tolkien's.   
  
Author's Note: This story was written for Elwen in the Frodo's New Year Mathoms Challenge. There's lots of wonderful writing from many great gen writers, so take a look! You can find it at http://baranduin.us/mathomgennew.htm.   
  
When Frodo closed his eyes as ash and fire from Mount Doom rained upon him, he never expected to open them again. The quest was over, the Ring was destroyed, and at last he could die in peace. His only regret was taking Sam with him, but Sam would have had it no other way. He would see Frodo to the end of his road, or die trying.   
  
So Frodo closed his eyes, laying his arm across his face to protect it even as he thought death would surely take him. The only sounds around him was the hiss of ash and hot air, and an occasional blast as the volcano spewed up more magma. He could only hope that he would die before the horrible fire burned him, or a falling rock crushed him.   
  
Frodo closed his eyes, but death did not take him.   
  
He'd fallen into unconsciousness before, but this was different. Usually everything just went black, but instead he fell into a grey place, cold and full of fog and shadow. He could not move, and he ached beyond words.   
  
There his consciousness lingered, for how long he could not say. "What is this place?" his mind finally wondered, confused and frightened. He felt small and lost.   
  
"The crossroads between life and death," a voice answered, melodious, gentle, and full of wisdom. He could not tell who the voice belonged to, or even where it was coming from. It surrounded him like the grey fog, and a feeling of warmth entered his heart.   
  
"Will I die?" Frodo asked softly. He would have welcomed death before, but his heart felt differently now.   
  
"No," the voice replied, a note of tenderness adding to its melody. "You have work to do still, brave Ringbearer. This is not your end, but merely your beginning."   
  
Then Frodo heard, dimly, another voice calling his name. He could never mistake this voice, though he had not heard it in what seemed like years. It was Aragorn's. Frodo's heart told him to respond, and with what little strength his fading spirit could muster, he called back to his friend. He felt Aragorn's presence near his, and the fog and cold that surrounded him lifted, through the world was still dim and grey.   
  
"Come, Frodo," Aragorn said. "You have done well. Come back to us." Frodo felt a pull upwards, and more warmth filled his aching body.   
  
He could hear voices far away, fading in and out of clarity.   
  
"...need, my lord?" A voice he did not recognize, deep but noble.   
  
"...water. Put some to heat, and some in cups for..." Aragorn's voice, waving with emotion and concern. Frodo had never heard him sound that way before, not even on the road to Rivendell when the Nazgul wound was ending his life.   
  
A few seconds passed in silence, then Frodo felt pulled from the dim place into brighter light. He opened his eyes, but the light was so bright that his eyes burned, and he had to quickly close them.   
  
"Frodo. Open your eyes." Aragorn's voice again, loud and commanding. The hobbit's head ached. 'It hurts,' he tried to say, but all that came out of him was a ragged murmur, unintelligible, like an injured animal.   
  
"Please, Frodo. You must open your eyes." Aragorn's voice was tender this time, soft with sorrow and pity. Frodo felt a hand squeeze his left one, warm and alive, and then another hand gently stroking his cheek.   
  
He opened his eyes.   
  
Again, light filled his vision, painful at first in its intensity, and Frodo fought with all his might against the urge to close his eyes again. Then the light gradually dimmed, and Aragorn's face, noble and beautiful, became clear. The king smiled at him, a genuine smile, no longer grim but full of joy. "My friend," he whispered, and there were tears in his eyes.   
  
Frodo tried to move his lips and say Aragorn's name, but nothing would come out of his parched throat. He saw moving shapes around the king, dim and dark shadows and silhouettes. A cup was pressed to his chapped, bleeding lips and a few drops of water ("Better than any jools!" Sam's voice said inside him) spilled over the cup's brim onto his lips. "Just a little," Aragorn said quietly, lifting Frodo's shoulders and allowing Frodo to take three small sips before taking the cup away and laying Frodo back down (On grass? On stone? His body ached too much to tell).   
  
He felt someone lift his wounded hand, and then pressure on the bleeding stump of his finger. Pain ran up his arm, and he tried to scream but all that came was a low guttural moan that rattled his throat. Aragorn was talking with someone on Frodo's other side; then the pressure on his finger eased.   
  
Aragorn turned to him again, grabbing his hand once more. "You must rest now, dearest of friends. You have spent so much time in darkness, I am loath to send you again. But whatever darkness you now find will not trouble you; it will heal you."  
  
And when Frodo fell asleep, he fell not into dream, but into memory.   
  
Frodo had been twenty-two the first time he had seen the Elves. He and Bilbo were exploring the forests northeast of Hobbiton, something they had done quite frequently in the years before and after Frodo came to live at Bag End. They would pack provisions and spend several days out in the woods, and Bilbo would tell Frodo stories of the Elder Days and teach him walking-songs and how to navigate by the stars.   
  
It was a clear, cool night at the beginning of May; the spring rains were light if they came at all. Not that Bilbo was afraid of a little rain; according to him, it was always a good time to go exploring, because things changed so often according to season that you had to see everything.   
  
The hobbits were walking along one of the forest roads, looking for a good place to make camp for the night. Bilbo carried a small lantern to light the way and search through the soft underbrush at the side of the road, mostly looking for signs of animals. "There aren't many animals in these woods that are dangerous, but you don't want to encroach on someone else's territory, if you know what I mean, lad," Bilbo said. Frodo knew exactly what he meant.   
  
Frodo was singing one of his new walking-songs quietly, every so often pausing when he couldn't remember the words and letting Bilbo remind him. He'd gotten through a good stretch of the old walking-song by himself when Bilbo suddenly hissed, "Shh!" and raised his hand to quiet Frodo.   
  
There was a moment of palpable silence where Frodo's heart pounded out a few beats, and then he heard it: a voice raised in song, sweeter and more beautiful than anything he had heard before. The joyous melody danced on the night air. Frodo did not need to ask who the voice belonged to; he had imagined it since he was a lad and had first heard Bilbo's exotic tales of the Elves.   
  
A smile broke out on Bilbo's face, and his eyes twinkled merrily. "Come on lad," he whispered, blowing out his lantern's candle. "But be quiet and quick as you can!"   
  
Bilbo crept through the woods towards the voice, his feet making no noise on the soft forest floor. Frodo followed; he did not yet have his uncle's aptitude at creeping silently, but he was getting there.   
  
Then he saw them: a small group of Elves, no more than ten or so, walking through the woods. The stars glinted off of their hair and clothes, though they carried no lanterns or lights of their own. One among them, a Elf lady with long dark hair, was singing. Frodo did not understand her language, but the song itself filled him with happiness. He smiled at Bilbo, and his uncle smiled back.   
  
Frodo would have been content enough to merely watch them pass, but to his surprise, one of the Elf lords turned towards where he and Bilbo were standing in the shadows. "Greetings, halflings of the Shire!" he said in the Common Speech.   
  
Bilbo stepped forward and bowed, greeting the Elf lord in his own tongue. All the Elves looked surprised, and two or three laughed with delight. "You honor us with your greeting," the Elf lord said. "Never have we heard one of your race who knows our language."   
  
Bilbo bowed again and smiled. "There are few of us who ever have, and none besides myself in my memory. I am Bilbo Baggins and this is my nephew, Frodo. He is learning your tongue and history, but is merely at the beginning of his study."  
  
Frodo, hearing that Bilbo had introduced him, bowed to the Elves. He tried to remember some of the Elvish Bilbo had taught him, but in the presence of such beauty and wonder, his mind was blank. All he could manage was a small wish that his face wasn't dirty.   
  
"We know your name, Bilbo Baggins." The Elf lady spoke next, her voice soft and musical. "Lord Elrond of Rivendell has named you Elf-friend. We are of his house, and are headed west to the Havens."  
  
"Are you going to sail?" Frodo blurted out, and then colored sheepishly. The Elf lady looked surprised, but then smiled softly. "Not yet," she said. "Not yet, young Frodo of the Shire, but soon. We go now merely on errands and to carry news. A few years of Men we will abide here in the north, walking through the quiet fields and forests and enjoying the comforts of Rivendell, and then one day we will pass the Towers, and come to the Havens, and sail."   
  
The hobbits and the Elves camped together that night. For Frodo, it passed like a dream: food and drink more delicious than any he had ever tasted, many songs, and Bilbo conversing with the Elves in their own tongue, seeking news from the outside world. He listened to them speak for a long time, resting on his blanket on the forest floor with his head on his arms, until he fell asleep.   
  
Frodo awoke the next morning to discover, sadly, that the Elves were gone. Bilbo had not slept at all. "They left early this morning, lad. They left you their greetings and wish you luck with your studies."  
  
"Did they have any news for you, Bilbo?" Frodo asked. Bilbo looked troubled for a moment, but then his face brightened again. "A few things. I'll tell you after we set off. Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold!"  
  
Bilbo had decided to head back southwest towards home. "There's not much I can show you that can come close to seeing the Elves," Bilbo had said, though Frodo vehemently disagreed. "Anyway, it smells like rain, and a roaring storm at that. Usually I wouldn't mind, but traveling in soaked clothes is something I don't like to do unless I have to."  
  
By late afternoon they were in sight of Bywater, and it still had not rained, though now even Frodo's still-novice nose could smell it. The clouds above them were darkening, fairly busting with water. When the storm came, it would be heavy. Frodo wasn't sure if they would make it to Bag End in time.   
  
And not ten minutes later, the rain started, and started hard. It poured down in torrents, the wind coldly whipping around them. What hobbits had stayed out trying to work were now scrambling for cover inside their homes or under trees.   
  
"Bilbo!" Frodo shouted over the din. "Should we find some cover and let it pass?"   
  
"No!" Bilbo shouted back. "It's going to be a long storm, and we're soaked through anyway; let's just get home!"  
  
"Mr. Bilbo, Mr. Bilbo!" a voice called from the road. It was little Samwise from Bagshot Row, and he was soaked through as well. "Fancy a storm like this! It's enough to blow a chimney off!"   
  
"Come here, Sam!" Frodo called, and then tried to shelter the small lad under his soaking blanket. Sam was talking hurriedly. "My mum needed some things from town so she sent me in but this storm started up before I could get there! I hope she won't be mad!"  
  
"I doubt that, Sam," Frodo said with a quick smile, squinting against the driving rain.   
  
"Oh, bother," Bilbo had muttered, then stopped in the road. It was becoming slick and muddy. Then Bilbo did something odd; he laughed.   
  
"What's wrong, Bilbo?" Frodo asked, turning towards his uncle.  
  
That was when the mud came flying.   
  
It hit Frodo squarely in the chest with a loud smack, and he took a step backwards, nearly falling down. Sam gasped and threw his hands over his mouth in shock. But Bilbo…Bilbo's eyes were glittering, and he had a crooked grin on his face. A rascal's grin.   
  
Frodo, who was still off-kilter with a huge splatter of mud on his chest, balanced himself and straightened his shoulders, looking at his uncle with an eyebrow raised. By this time Frodo stood a good two inches taller than Bilbo, and he tried to pull himself up to his full height. The wind, which had been howling, had quieted in expectation.   
  
By the time the battle was over, both hobbits were barely recognizable. Frodo had green weeds sticking out of his hair (from when Bilbo had tackled him and rubbed his head in the dirt), and his clothes and skin were caked with mud and water. His uncle had a clump of mud stuck fast to the side of his head; Frodo had launched a surprise attack, walloping him as the older hobbit tried to grab a huge handful of mud. Sam, meanwhile, had had the good sense to run out of the way; his mother was a more formidable foe than any mud pie, and if his clothes had ended up muddy her wrath would be harsh.   
  
The rain still fell harder than ever, but it didn't matter. Frodo was laughing so hard that his knees felt weak, and he had to bend over and put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder to support himself.   
  
Bilbo was hysterical. "I wonder...I wonder what your aunts would think of me now?" he gasped.   
  
Frodo, giggling and gasping, did a perfect imitation of his prissy Aunt Amaranth. "That Bilbo Baggins, slinging mud like a farmhand! Why, next thing you know, he'll be out sleeping with the pigs!" (Amaranth had, by that time, been dead several years, and would have been beside herself if she had heard "worthless old Bilbo" had adopted Frodo.)  
  
Bilbo roared with laughter and clapped him on the shoulder, then he slipped on the mud and went sprawling on his backside, landing with a wet squelch. Frodo laughed so hard that his knees finally gave out, and he ended up crumpling on the road on his hip. Sam blushed furiously, then giggled.   
  
After the hobbits had managed to get control of themselves again (which took a good long while, because they couldn't stop laughing), they jogged the short distance home, dropping off a soaked Samwise at Number Three, Bagshot Row before ducking into the warm silence of Bag End. The beautiful shining floor was now imprinted with their muddy footprints, but it didn't much matter. They were still laughing, the sound of their voices and shouts ringing through the hole and making it forget the quiet.   
  
Frodo knew why he had remembered this first: because it was his happiest memory with his dear uncle, the first time since his parents died that he had felt like he belonged somewhere, that someone loved him.   
  
As he lay in healing sleep in Ithilien, Frodo remembered more from his life before the Ring and the quest: he remembered his mother humming while she sewed in the fine parlor of Brandy Hall, and his father's laughter and his Dwarf-made pipe with a silver mouthpiece (a gift from Bilbo, no doubt). Merry saying Frodo's name when he was barely a year old, "Fo-fo." Pippin as a child singing a rude song that Frodo had taught him; how Bilbo had laughed! And Sam in his tweens, reading perfectly from Frodo's childhood primer, the first Gamgee to do so in generations. "Spring rains bring the flowers, there's benefit in showers."   
  
Each memory and every voice was as clear as if Frodo had just lived those days, as if they had just happened and the Ring had not taken them away, leaving nothing but the Eye and the lust for It. They had been given back to him; his life was his again.   
  
And as his healing sleep ended and he began to wake, he heard another voice, gruff and smoky, that he had never expected to hear again. "Good morning, my dear hobbit."   
  
It wasn't until many years later that Frodo could fully recall what had happened as the grey fog surrounded him, and the mysterious beautiful voice had spoken to him. By that time Gandalf had become Olorin the Maia again, the spirit of his youth in Valinor, wise but full of laughter and joy, and they sat at tea in the bliss of Tol Eressea.   
  
After Frodo had told his story, Olorin had clasped his teacup in his hands, looking east for a few long moments, toward the Sea and Middle-earth, then turned to the hobbit with a knowing smile on his face. His eyes were bright like the Gandalf of old's had been.  
  
"The voice you heard was Eru Illuvatar's," he said. 


End file.
